Senya
by ferociouscrayon
Summary: Sakura, Itachi, and some things better off forgotten. [What are you wondering? What do you know?]
1. Part 1

Fully back on my bullshit.

Canon divergence because if Kishimoto had made Sasuke less of a human trash bag, I might have been okay with how the series ended (and, to a lesser extent, because I like Sakura with long hair). Fight me.

* * *

[What do you want from me? Why don't you run from me?]

* * *

If she's being honest with herself, Sakura doesn't remember much of her childhood anymore. She'll be seventeen this year, and the years predating her graduation from the academy have become increasingly hazy. She vaguely recalls being bullied by the other girls for her forehead, but she couldn't name names even if she wanted to. She remembers the red ribbon Ino had given her when, out of pity, the Pig had decided they should be friends. She remembers stupidly giving it back and wrecking their friendship — if you could really call it that — over something as stupid as a boy, especially when she _can't_ remember why she'd even decided she liked that boy. She remembers being terribly, _terribly _cruel to Naruto, but could not for the life of her tell you why, except that children are, by nature, terribly cruel, but that doesn't seem like much of an excuse anymore.

She knows it's supposed to happen this way — that memories inevitably fade as a person ages, which is both disappointing, because she doesn't want to forget the way her father had carried her on his shoulders when she was little, and an immense relief because she'd rather not remember how she'd carried on after Sasuke simply because all the other little girls were doing the same. But with each birthday, her early memories — both pleasant and unpleasant — are recalled with less and less clarity.

With the horrifying exception of one.

She's always meant to ask her mother _why _she'd thought it was a good idea to let her eight-year-old daughter leave the house alone, after dark, to bring dango to a little boy she hardly knew, who lived at the far end of town. But, then she'd have to admit to another human being what she'd seen that night, and that's still not something she's ready to do. As a child, it had been the fear that he would come back for her if she told anyone that kept her quiet. Now, it's the fear that her entire world as she knows it will come crumbling down. So she carries on pretending she hadn't seen a thing, and hoping that, some day, the memory will fade and she won't have to pretend anymore. But, after almost nine years, she's beginning to feel less hopeful.

What she remembers most is the blood. Even now, she doesn't think she's ever seen so much blood.

Before she'd even set foot inside the compound, the stench had been enough to make her stomach turn and she'd nearly thrown up her dinner. It still dumbfounds her that she hadn't immediately abandoned her mission and gone home. Instead, clutching the package of dumplings, she'd continued down the line of trees and through the front gate. The buildings had all gone dark. Blood drenched the ground and coated the walls. And there, standing alone in the street, amidst all the bodies, had been him. Even with his blood-soaked face, she'd known him — Sasuke-kun's older brother. He'd come to pick him up from school the week before. She'd thought he was handsome.

"Itachi-san?"

She'd tried for years afterward to tell herself that he hadn't been crying — that she'd only imagined it, because it was easier to believe, and easier to reconcile. But as clearly as she remembers the sickening smell, she also remembers the tears streaking down his face, dripping red from his chin.

"Please go home."

She'd dropped the paper bag of dumplings at his feet and run.

* * *

When he wakes, laying on a cot, staring at the all-too familiar ceiling of an infantry field tent, Itachi finds himself with a number of questions, such as where he is, who brought him here, where his clothes have gone, what's in the IV drip feeding into his right arm, why his eyesight is markedly improved, and, chief among them: why he's woken up at all.

His battle with Sasuke had been the end, or rather, it should have been. He'd planned it to be, after all.

Sasuke had been freed of Orochimaru, and he had been freed of the weight of his sins. Sasuke would be hailed as a hero for killing the man who'd massacred his entire clan, and welcomed home with open arms to the village that loved him, and Itachi would be forgotten. His baby brother would never have to know the truth. His own survival had never been part of the plan, and he wonders what it will mean for all he's worked for since the day he left Konoha — what it will mean for Sasuke. With weak fingers, he tugs at the IV in his arm. He's tortured his little brother enough.

Distantly, he hears the tent flaps snap open, but continues to claw at the IV.

"Stop that! What's wrong with you!"

He can't recall when a simple slap has ever felt like blunt force trauma, and groans in discomfort, wondering if he's just had his hand broken. The woman standing at his bedside, glaring down at him, is clearly without sympathy. His mental faculties are significantly slowed, but he recognizes the Konoha insignia on her flak jacket, and, after a moment, the unsettling green eyes and absurd pink hair. She'd been Sasuke's teammate, before he'd defected — the one who'd destroyed the Akatsuki stronghold in the Wind country. The one who had killed Sasori. His mind is too jostled to remember her name, but he suddenly very much dislikes the idea of being trapped here with her. With a greater sense of desperation, he reaches for the IV again, and finds himself shoved back down against the cot none too gently for his troubles.

"Stop doing that," she snaps. "Next time, I'll break your hand."

"I think you already did," he says, grimacing.

Still frowning, she tosses her long hair over her shoulder and leans down to check that the IV is still attached. Her irritation is tangible.

"I only sprained it," she tells him, looking him dead in the eyes, "and I'm not fixing it until you stop trying to rip out your IV."

That will prove to be a mistake, he thinks, and with what little remains of his chakra, attempts to activate his Sharingan.

"I won't be staying here," he replies, staring up at her. If she's foolish enough to think she can overpower him, even in this state, he thinks, she's going to be sorely disappointed. But when the Sharingan spurs to life, only to immediately fade back out, she rolls her eyes.

"Don't bother," she says, planting a fist on her hip. "You don't have enough chakra to sustain your Sharingan right now. You really think I'd be stupid enough to look you in the eye otherwise?"

He sags back against the stiff cot and stares emptily at the ceiling, unable to remember the last time he's been so humiliated.

Sensing his defeat, she moves over to the makeshift workstation in the corner, turning her back on him.

"You should be dead, you know," she adds, offhanded, as if that hadn't been his intention all along.

He glances over at her, watching as she fills a syringe from a vial of clear, viscous liquid.

"Why aren't I?"

She looks back at him over her shoulder, her delicate facial features pinched in frustration, as if she takes his tone for being ungrateful.

"Because I'm an idiot, apparently," she snipes, capping the ampoule and and beginning to fill a second.

He thinks she could be lovely, with her long, bright hair, soft face, and lean frame (he doesn't ever recall shorts and stockings being the standard for field uniforms) — if not for her attitude.

"You could have let me die," he tells her.

"The hunter-nin said the same thing," she replies, not bothering to look up from her work this time. "I'm beginning to think I should have listened."

From the markings on her vest, he guesses she's only a chuunin, and has to wonder what she's doing accompanying a team of hunter-nin, when corpse retrieval has only ever been delegated to Anbu. And while he knows that age means little in their profession, she still seems terribly young.

"Why didn't you?" He asks.

She finishes filling and capping a third syringe — the vial now empty — then shifts to look at him, and he finds her expression has softened, but just barely. She's still frowning, but the softness in her eyes reads more like pity than anger.

"Because I wouldn't be much of a medic, then, would I?"

A medic, he thinks. A medic with monstrous strength and a terrible temper. Suddenly her placement on a team of hunter-nin makes a great deal more sense.

"You're the Godaime's apprentice," he says.

She smiles wryly.

"I am," she says. "What gave it away? The miraculous fact that you're no longer a human pincushion?"

"Your foul temper."

Her expression immediately darkens again, but rather than snipe back at him as he expects, she turns and picks up one of the syringes she's just filled, then returns to his bedside. Instinctively, he attempts to shift away, but his ruined body is hardly willing to budge. If she notices, she doesn't care, and goes on scowling at him, clutching the ampoule tightly in one hand.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're an idiot?" She asks, seating herself beside him at the edge of the cot and rolling up her sleeves.

He chooses not to dignify the question with a response, and only glares up at her in return.

"No? Oh good," she says, her voice falsely cheerful as she uncaps the syringe. "I get to be the first. You're an idiot — since only an idiot completely drains his chakra and willingly destroys his optic nerves. You were completely blind when we found you — do you know how much time and chakra that took me to reverse?"

He tries push her away when she carefully lifts his arm to administer the shot, but she easily brushes him off and presses him back down against the cot.

"Oh, stop it," she tells him, holding him down with her left hand and injecting the ampoule into his deltoid, just above the bicep, with her right. "For someone who's so put out over not being dead, you seem awfully worried that I'm trying to kill you."

To his own embarrassment, he flinches when the needle pierces his skin, and he feels the thick fluid being forced into the muscle beneath.

"This is a chakra stimulant," she says, pulling the now empty syringe from his arm, recapping it, and setting it aside. "It will speed up the regeneration process, since you bled yours completely dry. And the IV drip is a high-dose painkiller because your injuries were so extensive, though not as high-dose as I'd like, since you're still conscious. But, it's the best I have outside the hospital. Either way, I'd quit trying to rip it out if I were you."

Once again, he says nothing in response, instead closing his eyes and hoping that she'll just leave him be. But when he's overcome by a coughing fit, too sudden and violent for him to stifle in his weakened state, that hope is quickly dashed. Once it subsides, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, already knowing there will be blood. From the corner of his eye, he can see her watching him, entirely unconcerned.

"How long have you been dying, Itachi?"

Somehow, the question catches him off guard. Of course she knows. How could she not? With the amount of work she must have done and chakra she must have expended to piece him back together, it would have been impossible to miss. He tilts his head to look at her, but says nothing. The pity in her eyes is too much for him.

"There was so much blood in your lungs I assumed they'd been punctured, but none of your ribs were broken in the right places," she says. "It's a wonder you can even breathe, let alone move or fight. The pain must be excruciating. I don't even know how you've survived this long."

"I've been given medication," he tells her, not in the mood to be lectured.

"No, actually, you haven't," she says evenly. "I ran a blood test to check for any toxins in your system, and the results came back with traces of low-grade painkillers and cough suppressants."

His gaze flickers back to the ceiling, and not for the first, second, or third time since he'd woken up, he wishes he hadn't.

"Why would you let this happen to yourself?" She asks quietly after a moment. "Why are you in such a hurry to die?"

Part of him wants to laugh. Is that what she thinks?

"I would not have chosen this," he says, "but as a missing-nin, I had no hope of receiving treatment."

In his peripheral vision, he can see her frowning, and he realizes that she still doesn't understand.

"Why didn't you seek out a medic?" She presses him. "The damage to your lungs is so extensive that you must have been living with this disease for at least five years. Not all of the hidden villages could have known your face then, and Konoha has plenty of enemies — I'm sure they wouldn't have cared, even if they had recognized you."

Slowly, he shakes his head. "It isn't that simple."

She fists her hands in her lap and leans in over him, as if to get his attention. "Why not?" She demands. "Akatsuki is a powerful organization with widespread influence. You could have easily bribed or threatened many of the other villages into providing you treatment."

"They would have killed me."

She laughs then, but not because she finds it funny. "That's a bit rich," she tells him darkly, "coming from a man who seems genuinely disappointed to still be alive."

His expression blackens and he shifts to face her again. "Everyone has the right to die on their own terms," he replies.

She makes a face at him, and for a moment, he sees Sasuke as a boy, sulking because Itachi wouldn't train him. The expression had been identical. Suddenly, he can't stand to look at her.

"Regardless," he continues, feeling his eyes begin to burn — a telltale sign of forthcoming tears, and a sensation he hasn't experienced in more than eight years — "the only medic capable of treating this disease had been missing since long before I was born, and she still owed allegiance to Konoha."

He hears her huff quietly, followed by the soft rustle of fabric as she crosses her arms over her chest.

"That didn't stop Orochimaru from tracking her down and begging for help," she says, as if she thinks she's making a point.

"And how did that end for him?" He asks, already knowing the answer.

Yes, he thinks when she goes quiet for several moments, she's still very young. Glancing over at her briefly, she's red in the face, staring at the floor.

"She tried to kill him," she murmurs.

He closes his eyes and hopes she can't see the corner of his mouth turn up as he fails to keep himself from smirking.

A long, uneasy silence passes between them — her, too embarrassed to continue the conversation, and him, considering what he's supposed to do now when he hadn't planned on living this long, though he supposes he likely won't live much longer. As if on cue, another cough wells up in his chest that he forces himself to choke back down.

"I won't try to kill you," she says suddenly.

His eyes snap open and he looks over at her, surprised in spite of himself, as if he hadn't heard her with perfect clarity. "What?"

She's staring down at him intently, her eyes strangely bright.

"I haven't killed you yet, have I?" She asks, perfectly serious. "And trust me, I've had plenty of opportunities. You were practically dead when we found you, and you couldn't fight me now even if you wanted to — your body is too weak and you don't have enough chakra."

He glares at her, unappreciative of the comment. "That isn't what I meant."

She makes the same face she'd made before — cheeks puffed and a frown that's quirked to one side — and he has to keep himself from insisting that she not.

"Oh, you think I can't do it?" She says, as if she thinks this is a challenge. "I fixed your vision, didn't I? Believe me, repairing a completely deteriorated optic nerve and cornea is much harder than this will be. Do you know how delicate the eye is?"

His expression doesn't lift. "Why?" He asks.

She stares at him like she doesn't understand. "Why what? Why will this be easier than healing your eyes? Didn't they teach anatomy at the academy when you were there?"

"Why did you do it?" He clarifies, willing himself to not express his irritation. "Why did you restore my eyesight? Why would you be willing to treat my illness?"

She goes on staring at him for a moment, and he wonders if maybe she hasn't just changed her mind. But then her face softens, and he does not expect her to reach out with one small hand and carefully brush his filthy hair from his face — her fingertips cool against his skin. When had she taken off her gloves?

"I told you," she says, her voice gentler than before, "I'm a medic. I fix broken things."

"You would fully rehabilitate your enemy?" He asks as she sweeps another matted lock of hair from his face.

She regards him seriously, tucking aside one final strand of hair before slowly getting to her feet. "It's not really for me to decide," she says, "and I'm not sure you're my enemy, Itachi."

Isn't he?

His gaze lingers on her face, even as she turns away. Those startling eyes. That springtime pink hair. Suddenly, it comes back to him.

"Sakura," he says, and she stops to look back at him over her shoulder. "That's your name, isn't it?"

With the slightest smile that he only recognizes by the way her eyes light up, she nods.

"You were my brother's teammate."

She nods again, the smile fading. "A long time ago."

He watches as she steps over to her workstation and picks up another ampoule of the chakra stimulant, uncapping it and pushing her sleeve further up her left arm.

"You should try to get some more rest," she says, administering the injection with practiced ease. "I don't have enough chakra to start the treatment yet, and repairing the damage to your lungs will be painful — not as bad as your eyes would have been, but, unfortunately, this time you'll be conscious."

He wonders how many days it's been since she found him. She'd made no secret of how much chakra she'd expended to keep him alive, and again to repair his eyes, the recovery for which would not be an overnight process. He then finds himself curious as to the whereabouts of the rest of her team.

"How long has it been?" He asks once she's pulled the needle from her arm and replaced the cap.

Her eyes flicker back to him as she rolls her sleeve back down. "Three days," she says, setting the empty syringe back on the steel surface of her workstation.

Longer than he'd hoped.

"Since we found you, anyway," she adds after a moment. "I'm not sure how long you were out there before then. Based on the condition you were in and the state of your wounds, I'd guess forty-eight hours, maybe?"

The statement frustrates him. Two days he'd managed to cling life when he'd only wanted it to be over. He'd been ready. It should have been time.

If she notices his frustration, she says nothing, asking him instead if he's in any pain.

"No more than usual," he tells her, and immediately, she frowns, moving back over to his beside to inspect the IV drip.

"I can up your dose," she offers. "It might be help you get some more sleep."

He's quick to decline. "I'd rather you didn't."

She looks as though she wants to argue with him, but settles for simply shaking her head instead. "Suit yourself," she tells him.

He's surprised when she proceeds to fetch a sleeping bag and mat from the opposite corner of the tent and unroll both on the floor beside his cot, because he realizes he doesn't even know what time it is. She only bothers to kick off her sandals before she sinks down onto the floor and crawls inside the sleeping bag.

"I need to get some sleep and restore as much of my chakra as I can. You should do the same," she says, rolling onto her side so she's facing away from him. "And don't get any stupid ideas about leaving — I still have more strength and chakra than you right now, and I will happily knock you on your ass if you try."

He thinks she sounds more like the Godaime than she knows.

"Where is the rest of your squad?" He asks, wondering at this point how long they've been alone.

If she's irritated with him for keeping her awake, he has no way of knowing, because she doesn't turn to look at him. "One should arrive back in Konoha tomorrow to report to Tsunade-sama," she says. "The other two are tracking your brother. Except I doubt they'll find him. He was already long gone by the time we found you, and I assume he's in better shape than you were."

"You don't want them to find him?"

"I don't know," she says, her tone clipped. "Why does it matter to you? You're supposed to hate him."

He doesn't miss the way she says it as though she has reason to believe otherwise.

"It's a bit strange, don't you think—," she continues, more quietly than before, still curled up on her side, her back to him, "for a man who hated his little brother so much, to be so disappointed that his little brother didn't kill him."

* * *

[What are you wondering? What do you know?]

* * *

A/N: Part one of probably three. Gonna keep this one short.


	2. Part 2

[Why aren't you scared of me? Why do you care for me?]

* * *

He doesn't remember how or when he fell asleep, but when he wakes an indeterminate amount of time later — it could have been minutes, hours, or days for all he knows — the space beside him on the floor is unoccupied, and her sleeping bag has been rolled up and stashed away back in the corner of the tent, as if it had never been used at all. He vaguely wonders if he hadn't dreamed the entire interaction, but his arm is still sore where she'd injected the chakra stimulant, and when he glances over at her workstation, he finds himself staring at the back of an impossibly pink head of hair.

He's still naked, but at some point during the night she'd wrapped him in a clean blanket, and judging by his still-damp hair and the clean scent of his skin, likely bathed him as well. Under different circumstances, he would be mortified, but at this moment he is only grateful to have been scrubbed clean of the blood and sweat and grime. Still, his entire body aches horribly from laying in one place for so long and suddenly he finds himself desperate to get off of this stiff, miserable cot. But, when he attempts to sit up, he quickly realizes his error as his arms fail to support his weight, and he immediately collapses back, hissing in discomfort as he's overwhelmed by the lingering pain of his injuries. The commotion doesn't go unnoticed.

"Itachi!"

Whatever she's been working on clatters against the steel tabletop as she abandons her workstation and rushes to his bedside, immediately slipping a hand behind his head for support.

"I just wanted to sit up," he groans, fighting to suppress the cough he can feel building in his chest, but with limited success. His chest heaves and his mouth immediately tastes of blood.

As he's overcome by another fit, he feels her other hand press down on his chest, and then the warmth of her chakra seeping into his skin. When he opens his eyes, she isn't looking at him. Instead, she's staring calmly at where her hand sits above his sternum, the delicate lines of her face still smooth — focused, but untroubled. After a moment, his chest stills, and the need to cough subsides.

"I know," she says. "I'm sorry. I'm sure you're uncomfortable."

The warmth that had flooded his lungs slowly disappears as she pulls her hand away and eases him back down before checking to make sure his IV hasn't been dislodged.

"But it's going to be a while longer before you're capable of very much — even little movements, like sitting up."

"What did you do with your chakra just then?" He asks.

She glances over at him, one eyebrow quirked. "When you were coughing? I just stopped the muscles from spasming and calmed some of the irritation in your lungs," she explains. "It won't have actually fixed anything."

She turns her attention back to the IV drip, somehow looking as though she feels guilty.

"I could do more for you if I could get you to a hospital instead of being stuck out here in the woods, but I can't take you back to Konoha yet," she explains, carefully adjusting the drip so as not to jostle the needle. "You're not strong enough to travel, and I haven't heard anything from Tsunade-sama."

For a moment, he's reminded of Izumi — her gentle nature. Her unfailing kindness. She had always been apologizing.

All the terrible choices he's made.

"You don't have to apologize to me," he murmurs. She's already done too much for him.

He half expects her to make a snide remark in response, but she only gives a slight smile.

"I know," is all she says before taking his mottled left hand in hers.

He'd nearly forgotten about the sprain.

"I'm sorry," she tells him, tracing long, glowing fingers along the top of his hand. "I should have fixed this sooner. It's probably to blame for your fall."

He can see the bruises quickly begin to fade, and after a short moment, they disappear completely.

"Just promise me you won't try to rip out your IV anymore, okay?"

She lightly pats the top of his hand to let him know she's finished. However, she doesn't let go, and goes on staring down at him, still smiling softly, his hand clasped gently between hers.

"Who were you thinking of just then?" She asks.

"What?"

It's a knee-jerk response, and he finds himself becoming frustrated by how easily she's able to disarm him, especially when she seems so completely unaware of it, staring at him curiously as if it's completely unintentional.

"You were looking at me like I reminded you of someone," she tells him. "I was just wondering who."

She's more intuitive than he ever would have imagined, and after their conversation about his brother, it's beginning to worry him.

"No one," he says, then quickly attempts to change the subject. "How long was I asleep?"

Sensing his discomfort, she carefully sets his hand back on his chest and gets to her feet.

"Only through the night," she says, visibly disappointed. "I was hoping you'd make it a little longer."

"So it's morning, then."

She nods. "It's still early. The sun's barely up."

For her to be so bright-eyed and fresh-faced, he has to wonder how long she's been awake. Nothing about her would even begin to indicate that she's been out in the wild for nearly a week with — he assumes — minimal food and rest. He can only imagine what he must look like, half-dead from disease and injury.

"I don't remember falling asleep," he tells her.

"I'm not surprised," she says, resting a hand on her hip. "You've been in and out of consciousness since we found you. Hopefully you're out of the woods now."

He watches as she produces a small water flask from her hip pouch, unscrews the cap, and leans down to offer it to him.

"Here," she says. "For the blood."

Weakly, he accepts it, thinking that, in spite of her rotten temper, she's far too kind for the life she's chosen. The same had been true of Izumi. Even in her final moments, she had been gentle and forgiving. He hadn't deserved it. He wishes she had hated him instead.

He takes a generous drink from the flask, but struggles to swallow, and spits most of it back up. Even with her brow furrowed, her bright eyes are still soft as she crouches back down beside him. With her vivid features she looks nothing like Izumi, and yet Izumi is all he thinks of when he looks at her. He hasn't thought of her so much in years — not even when she was alive.

"Try to take small sips if you can," she says, carefully dabbing the bloody water from his chin with her sleeve. "I told you, remember? Even little things will be hard."

Reluctantly, he obeys and with her help, tilts the flask just enough to take a short drink, frustrated when he still struggles to choke it down. Sensing his discouragement, she eases the flask down, gently smoothing back his damp hair. He knows the tender gesture should bother him — he's spent most of his life wary of the affections of others — but instead he finds himself thinking that perhaps she doesn't take after Tsunade so much after all. He's never met the Godaime, but in all the stories he's heard, both as a child and a rogue ninja, the word "tender" has never once been used to describe her. He supposes then that there are some things that cannot be taught. Even her stern expression is still somehow kind.

"I wasn't kidding when I said you were nearly dead," she tells him, continuing to sweep her fingers through his bangs. "Try to be patient with yourself."

He doesn't know why he doesn't ask her to stop. He doesn't need to be coddled or comforted like a child, though he's sure that isn't what she intends. The gesture isn't meant to be motherly. She is simply a doctor comforting a patient. Isn't she? Something in the way she looks at him — the way her fingertips linger on his skin — reminds him of a lover. Not that he would actually know.

In the end, he decides to ignore it, and offers no protest as she continues to stroke his hair. Any feelings she might or might not have are of no consequence.

After a moment, she helps him take another sip from the flask, carefully supporting the back of his head to make swallowing a little easier, then easing him back down. He watches with some disappointment as she replaces the cap on the flask and stows in back in her hip pouch. He'd been hoping for a few more drinks. He's suddenly thirstier than he can ever remember being in his life.

"I was hoping we could get started on your treatment today," she says, crossing her arms on the edge of the cot and resting her chin on top of them, watching him carefully. "If you're feeling up to it."

He considers her for a moment, somehow surprised that she'd actually been serious last night, and perplexed that she seems to have absolutely no misgivings about going through with it. He wonders what she knows — what she won't admit to him out loud.

Slowly, he nods. Her expression immediately turns serious, as if a switch has just been flipped.

"I need you to do me a favor first," she tells him. "How are your chakra reserves?"

He feels for his Sharingan, pleased when it activates with ease and his field of vision expands vastly. While he's still not quite at full capacity, her chakra stimulant had worked exceptionally well. Seeing his satisfaction, she smiles.

"I'm a genjutsu specialist," she says. "That's how I've been keeping us hidden. But, with your Sharingan, your illusions are much more powerful than mine, and I won't be able to maintain a genjutsu while I'm operating on you since I'm going to need all of my chakra for the procedure. Do you think you can create and maintain a genjutsu for me?"

But when his only response is to smirk, the corners of her mouth turn down and her browline knits together.

"Don't look so confident just yet," she tells him. "You don't know the full extent of the procedure."

"You underestimate me," he says.

She continues to regard him seriously.

"Here's the thing," she says, getting to her feet and sweeping her hair back into a high ponytail, "we're going to have to do this in phases because we're not in a hospital and I'm only one girl with very average chakra reserves. Even with my chakra control, repairing each damaged cell in your lungs — and believe me, there are a lot — will probably bleed me dry, so I'll need at least twenty-four hours to recover before I can start reprogramming your immune system to stop attacking your body's healthy cells. The whole process will probably take three days."

He stares up at her, still skeptical of her bleak expression.

"But, before I can even get started," she continues, "I have to get the blood out of your lungs. I can't work around it."

He cocks an eyebrow. "And?"

Her eyes narrow and she plants a fist on her hip. "You have two options," she tells him, "and since you're conscious now, neither will be very pleasant — for either of us."

"I'm not concerned about the pain," he says evenly.

"You say that now," she replies darkly. "Your first option is for me to make a small incision in each of your lungs with a chakra scalpel and use an herbal fluid to draw the blood out through the incision. It's a pretty crude method, but I've used it before to extract poison and it gets the job done."

She pauses then, staring at him grimly. "The second option," she says, "is to draw the blood up through the trachea and out of your throat."

His expression waivers as he begins to understand her concern.

"In other words, the process will be long, and it will be painful," she says. "That's why I ask if you really think you're capable of maintaining a high-level genjutsu the entire time."

He grimaces, wondering in the back of his mind if he truly wants to go through with this. What can she possibly hope to accomplish by making him healthy again? There is no place for him in the world. What kind of life can he expect to have? He'd given up all that when he'd chosen Sasuke's future over his own. But, he suspects she isn't thinking about that — only the problem in the front of her, which is a dying man. She doesn't realize that letting him die would be far kinder.

"Which option will be worse?" He asks.

"Honestly," she says, her face softening as she drops back down to her knees and rests her elbows back on the edge of the cot so she can look him in the eye, "both are terrible, especially because you'll be conscious."

He hates the look of sympathy in her eyes, like she somehow feels guilty — as if she hasn't done enough for him.

"But, if it were me, I would go with the first option. It's more invasive, but also more direct, and less can go wrong. There are a lot of obstacles between the lungs and the mouth, which means more places I could potentially get stuck because your body starts to resist me. I could choke you to death purely by accident—"

"Why are you doing this?" He interrupts her. "It's not only because you're a medic. You're defying orders right now. I'm listed in the Konoha bingo book as 'kill on sight'."

She frowns at him. "Actually, you're listed as 'do not engage'," she corrects him, then shifts uncomfortably. When she speaks again, her voice is much softer. "Besides, I couldn't just let you die."

"You could have," he tells her. "It would have been easy. I doubt any of your teammates would have argued."

He expects her to get angry — to raise her voice and attempt to justify her decisions — but she doesn't. Instead she reaches out and flicks an errant lock of hair from his eyes, her expression strangely sullen. This close to her, he notices for the first the time the red band of her hitai-ate — a stark contrast against her pink hair.

"Because," she says, "I think you deserve a better life than the one you've had."

In his mind's eye, he sees a sudden flash of a little girl with pink hair and a red bow, holding a package of dango — the ones he'd liked as a boy. Suddenly it's difficult to breathe, as if all the air has been forced from his lungs.

_Itachi-san?_

"Itachi?"

_Please go home._

"Itachi? Are you alright?"

When his eyes refocus, she's visibly concerned, clutching his hand tightly in one of her own, the other hand pressed to his chest, feeling for an obstruction in his chest that isn't there.

Surely he's misremembering. Izumi had often brought him dango when they were children. Hadn't she worn a red ribbon in her hair? He can't recall. The last eight years and the role he's played have been unkind to his memories.

"I'm fine," he rasps, fighting for a full breath with his dying lungs. "It's just hard to breathe."

It's not exactly a lie, but from the look on her face, it's clear she isn't convinced. Perhaps, in the end, he hadn't played his role so well.

"Okay," she concedes, releasing his hand and getting back to her feet. "We'd better get some food in you before we start. At this rate, you'll waste away from starvation more quickly than your disease."

He considers the immense struggled he'd only just experienced moments before attempting to drink water.

"I'm not sure I can chew solid food," he admits quietly, humiliated by the idea.

"I'm not sure you can either," she agrees, and produces a handful of food pills from her hip pouch. "You'll have to make do with these for now."

It's been years since he's eaten them — not since his Anbu days — but he's not forgotten how awful they taste, and grimaces when she offers him one. He expects her to be annoyed by the reaction, but she only smiles at him, her expression empathetic.

"I know they're not ideal, but you're going to need as much strength as possible at this point just to survive the first part of the procedure," she tells him, her tone pleading. "Please."

He manages to choke down three, still struggling to swallow even such minuscule portions, and, with her assistance, washes them down with a few sips of water.

"If it's alright with you," she says after a moment, "I'd like to use the first method we discussed to drain the blood. It will be faster and safer than the second, and less painful."

He hesitates, but in the end gives a stiff nod, and the gravity of her expression deepens.

"Is there anything else you need before we start?" She asks him.

He shakes his head. "No."

"Okay, then," she says, reaching to turn up the dose on the IV drip. "I hope you're ready."

* * *

As it turns out, what she had told him about the duration and the pain had not been a polite warning. The process of extracting the blood from his lungs had been excruciating. After prepping his skin with antiseptic, she'd used a chakra scalpel to make two incisions — one at the base of each lung — before forcing a viscous herbal solution through the incision and into his lung, drawing in the blood, and pulling the solution back out. This had to be repeated several times for each lung, and each attempt seemed more agonizing than the last. He had imagined this was what it must be like to drown. At one point, on the fringe of consciousness, he had thought of Shisui.

Maintaining his genjutsu had been a struggle. He could barely even keep himself conscious, and on more than one occasion, when he had threatened to pass out from the pain, the illusion had flickered.

Sakura, however, had remained calm and absolutely focused throughout the procedure, regardless of how tightly she had been forced to hold him down while he thrashed. She had whispered to him that she was sorry — that it would be over soon. Had he told Izumi that in her final moments? He couldn't remember anymore. All he could think about was the pain, and the blood. There was so much blood. It was the only thing he could smell or taste. Sakura's delicate hands had been coated with it. It streaked her forehead from where she had wiped away the sweat with the back of her hand.

It was nightfall before they had finished, and as she settled down next to him — completely drained of chakra and unable to close the wounds on her own — with a needle and surgical thread to suture the incisions, he'd promptly blacked out.

* * *

The next time he wakes, it's to a small hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him awake.

"Itachi?"

He comes to slowly, blinking his impossibly heavy eyelids as Sakura's face gradually comes into view, her long, cherry blossom hair — no longer tied up for the operation — spilling over her shoulders and onto his chest as she leans over him, her hands braced against her thighs.

He opens his mouth to say her name, but the surgery and the dehydration have taken their toll on him, and he can only cough weakly, feeling his lips split and bleed. She immediately produces the flask of water from her hip pouch, unscrews the cap, and holds it to his mouth, tucking one hand behind his head as he drinks heavily, choking intermittently because he's still to weak to swallow properly.

"Slowly, Itachi," she tells him softly, the suggestion half-hearted, already knowing he isn't listening as the water splashes down his chin.

"More," he asks once it's empty — having spit up half of it in his haste — but she sets it aside and shakes her head.

"I think you've had enough for now," she says, again using her sleeve to dry the water from his chin. "You'll make yourself sick."

He stares up at her, disappointed, but fascinated by the sheen of her hair — how soft it feels against his skin.

"How long was I asleep?" He asks.

"Only a few hours," she says. "I'm sorry for waking you, but I wanted to make sure you were alright. You passed out before I finished suturing your incisions."

"I remember very little," he tells her, wondering at her hand still resting against his cheek, her sleeve damp on his skin.

"I'm not surprised," she says, watching him carefully, a certain softness in her eyes. "It's the body's natural reaction to block out that kind of trauma. I'm impressed you were able to stay conscious for so long. Your genjutsu held for the duration."

"And now?" He asks, concerned that he's left them exposed when neither of them are in any condition to fight. After all she's done for him.

But she only smiles, her expression reassuring. "I have just enough chakra to sustain a low-level genjutsu that will get us through the night," she tells him, smoothing his hair back from his face. "How do your lungs feel? Is it a bit easier to breathe?"

Experimentally, he takes a breath and finds that, despite the residual pain, for the first time in nearly six years, he no longer feels as though he's trying to breathe underwater.

"Much easier," he affirms, and her smile widens.

"That's what happens when your lungs aren't full of fluid," she says, her tone soft, but cheerful."Try to get some more rest. Tomorrow I can start fixing the actual damage to your lungs."

She straightens up beside him, stretching her arms overhead for a moment, before fetching her sleeping bag from the corner of the tent, and he wonders just how long this is going to go on.

"Sakura."

At the sound of her name, she turns back to him, her expression unreadable. "Yes?"

He stares her down, somehow angry, even after all she's done for him, risking both her life and her career, so he cannot be surprised when his words still come out softer and gentler than he intends — a sincere question rather than an accusation.

"Why are you doing this?"

Her lips curve upward in a slight smile, but the sadness, and the sympathy in her eyes is unmistakable. He wishes she would quit looking at him like that, as though he's something to be pitied.

"How many times are you going to ask me that?" She asks quietly, unrolling her sleeping bag on the floor beside him. If he didn't know better, he'd think she was being defensive. But the look in her eyes tells him otherwise.

She's waiting on him. If only he knew what for.

"Until you give me an honest answer," he says, his frustration mounting.

But then she turns that desolate smile on him again, and the sorrow in the way she looks at him is more than he can stand.

"What do you know?" He means it to intimidate her, but his weakened voice can hardly manage more than a whisper, and it comes as nothing but a frail, murmured request.

And so she goes on smiling at him, the despair in her eyes making him want to scream.

"You don't remember," she says, "do you?"

He thinks of a little girl with pink hair and a red bow again. It can't be. His eyes narrow as he glares at her, but her expression remains unchanged.

"Remember what?" He asks, his tone skeptical.

She moves closer to him, and he has to suppress the instinct to push her away.

"It was a long time ago, I suppose," she says softly. "I was so young. I thought for years that I must have imagined it."

A package of three-color dango. His favorite.

"What are you talking about?" He demands, struggling to shift away as she reaches the edge of the cot and extends her hand.

Blood. There had been so much blood. What the hell had she been doing there?

Her fingers close around his hand.

"You were crying," she says. "I've never forgotten that."

_Itachi-san?_

_ Please go home._

He can only stare at her dumbly, as though he's seeing her for the first time, squeezing her hand so tightly that she begins to lose feeling in her fingers.

"It was you."

* * *

A/N: Okay so it might be like 4 or 5 parts. Oops.


End file.
